Blood of the Lion
by Freelance Fanfictioner
Summary: He soared on dragon's wings, helped win the war, and conquered the heart of his wife. Now Tyrion is about to learn life is never done with surprises as he meets a shadow from the past. AU, sequel to Make Me a Lion. Sansa/Tyrion, Arya/Gendry
1. The young lion

The farther north Daven rode, the colder he felt; and the colder he felt, the faster he tried to advance forward, so as to reach his destination before the next snow blizzard buries both him and his mare. The poor animal has been losing weight ever since they set out, much as he. Dry grass and moss were becoming harder and harder to dig up from underneath the snow; as for himself, all the provisions he had left were a few slices of hard bread and some stripes of beef, so solidly frozen that he nearly broke a tooth last night when he tried to take a bit without thawing the meat first.

And it was bloody cold. He had never felt as cold as he did now, when he got closer to Winterfell. He wore fur-lined gloves, a heavy cloak, and thick leather hide boots. Still, he felt the sold seep right to his bones.

No matter. Winterfell was close, he could feel it by the faint smell of wood smoke and the unmistakable signs of habitation.

The sound of horse hooves could be heard coming closer towards him, nearer and nearer... and as Daven turned backwards to look, his hand on the hilt of his dagger, his mare reared and neighed in fear. She was spooked by a nasty-looking grey stallion ridden by a maid who looked almost as ill-tempered as her horse.

"Forgive me," she said, dismayed more than surprised, "it is usually a path no one but me rides. I had not expected to see a lone stranger here, now that winter set in. Who are you, ser?"

"I'm no knight," the young man smiled rather insolently.

"Good," said the girl, "right now, I'm sick of knights." _Particularly king's bastards who are so damn prickly about their honor that it is impossible to have an entire conversation without offending them._

The young man looked at her more intently now. She wasn't exactly pretty, but there was something instantly attractive in her easy manner and the bold look of her grey eyes.

"Is m'lady bound for Winterfell?" it was a silly question, he supposed. Where else would she be going?

"Yes," she said, "I am Arya Stark."

"Daughter to the late Lord Eddard and sister to the lady Sansa, are you not, m'lady?"

"I am. My two younger brothers, Bran and Rickon, are here as well. Bran is now Lord of Winterfell, though my sister's husband is Warden of the North and rules until Bran comes of age. You haven't told me your name yet," she felt she got too talkative with this golden-haired stranger who wasn't a knight or squire.

"Daven Rivers," the boy replied curtly.

A bastard, noted Arya. "You don't speak like someone who was born in the Riverlands," she said.

"I was born there, but grew up in the Vale, in the household of Lord Nestor Royce."

"And what brings you here?" asked Arya, blunt as always. "You are going to Winterfell, are you not?'

"I am," he said. She set her horse to a brisk trot, and the boy followed suit. "I am here to see the Lord Lannister," he said.

"Tyrion?" Arya shot him a curious glance. "Where would you know him from?"

"I don't," Daven said simply, "but I hope to."

Arya looked at him sideways. That golden hair and haughty manner of his forcibly reminded her of someone she had briefly known long ago.

"Have you ever been told you look a lot like..." she started, but he cut her off with an airy laugh.

"M'lady is yet to learn that bastards, as a rule, do not like to be questioned about their family history."

_No_, thought Arya._ I have already learned this all too well. _

_... _"So he didn't tell you who he was?" asked Sansa, balancing little Eddard on her knee.

"Daven Rivers," shrugged Arya, "some bastard from the Riverlands, grew up under the care of Nestor Royce at the Vale, he said."

"I know Nestor Royce," said Sansa, "we stayed with him for a fortnight once, and I never saw anyone looking remotely like this boy."

"Either he was away, or he wasn't important enough for you to notice."

"I'm sure I would have noticed him anywhere," said Sansa, gently disentangling her pearl pendant from her son's grasp. "Have you noticed how much he resembles -"

"The Kingslayer," finished Arya, "yes, he looks so much like him that I thought at first he must be a Lannister. But if he were, he wouldn't be so stupid as to come up with a bastard name."

"Perhaps he is a Lannister bastard," suggested Sansa, "be that as it may, Tyrion will figure him out soon enough."

All was well in Winterfell. Tyrion was a good Warden and a responsible lord, and saw that they would be amply provisioned throughout the winter. As for herself, Sansa had long gotten over what she had felt on the day she married him. His kindness and gentleness towards her, his bravery, his noble spirit and the devotion he had shown her have made her see that some notions of her maidenhood – such as that her husband must be a strong, handsome, gallant knight – had little to do with her actual happiness.

And of course, the fact that Tyrion named their son Eddard warmed her heart towards him as well. In all their time together, their meals and their walks, their joys and trials, and in the darkness of their bedchamber they would pour out each other's souls and heal each others wounds.

… "I will see him," Tyrion told the steward, "just please, Ryk, hint to him it had better not take too long. I still have matters of business to attend this morning."

Then man nodded, bowed and went out. Soon after, the boy entered. The quill fell out of Tyrion's hand.

"Jaime!" he gasped. A moment later he realized, of course, that this was a foolish exclamation, but the lad indeed looked very much like Jaime had, the day Aerys draped the white cloak of the Kingsguard around his shoulders. He was a little thinner, perhaps, and his eyes were grey-blue instead of the Lannister green, but he had the same hair of spun gold, the same nose, mouth and brows, the same stubborn chin with a few soft wisps of yellow hair.

Though to be sure, this boy looked more ragged and unkempt than Jaime ever had in his youth.

"I have had the resemblance pointed out to me more than once, my lord," said the boy, unsurprised, "and was able to attest to it myself, the one time I had seen Ser Jaime."

It wasn't impossible, Tyrion allowed. Perhaps his brother had not been as faithful to Cersei as he had always thought. "Is it true?" he asked, "Are you Jaime's son?"

"No," said the boy, looking him straight in the eyes, "I am yours."

"You…" the words were stuck in Tyrion's throat. No, no, it couldn't be, but –

"Tysha was my mother," added this young handsome stranger, "and you are my father, my lord."

_Any of my father's guardsmen could have been your father,_ Tyrion thought in horror, but the features of this boy were those of a Lannister, there was no mistaking that.

"I…" Tyrion's lips and tongue went parchment-dry. He swallowed with difficulty. "Speak. Tell me more."

"My mother was a washerwoman for a lordling in the Riverlands, but later ended up at the Vale, where she worked for Lord Nestor Royce. She learned to sew and was quite skillful. Lord Nestor was good to me, and took a great interest in me since I was very young."

_With a face such as yours, no wonder_. No doubt Nestor Royce was shrewd enough to understand that a bastard of a Lannister could one day become a man to be reckoned with. "Your mother… is she alive?" asked Tyrion in trepidation.

"She has been dead these three years," said Daven, and a cloud passed over his face.

_Three years. She might have lain dying while I swept over King's Landing on dragon's wings, while I savored triumph and was named Warden of the North. _

"She bade me to come and seek you when I am old enough," said Daven, "but first, I spent a year as a sailor, earned some money and bought a horse…"

"What is your name?" croaked Tyrion.

"Daven Rivers, if it please my lord."

"No," said Tyrion, "no, not Rivers. Your mother and I had been married, however briefly. You are Daven Lannister, my firstborn and trueborn son."

… "So he isn't a bastard after all," whispered Sansa in disbelief.

"I understand this is most displeasing to you, Sansa," he said.

"How so?" she frowned.

"It means Eddard is not my firstborn son," explained her husband. "If what Daven says is true, and I am fairly certain he isn't lying, he is my heir."

"I am sure little Ned will not be deprived," said Sansa, "but what would you do, my lord? Will Daven remain in Winterfell with us?"

"With snow that will soon be five feet deep, it seems he will have to," said Tyrion evasively, although he knew perfectly well what she meant.

Sansa looked at him intently and sighed, remembering Jon Snow, her bastard half-brother who had always felt like an outcast in Winterfell. She knew her husband well, and was certain of what he wished to hear.

"Daven will stay," she said, "we will see that he is instructed in the way that befits someone of his birth and station. It is only thanks to the kindness of Lord Royce that he can even read and write. I would say I will try and be like a mother to him," she said, "but since we are about the same age, this can hardly hold true."

"Are you sure, Sansa?" asked Tyrion, and his eyes brightened.

"Of course," the words came easily now that she knew she has done well, and she bent and planted a quick kiss on her husband's brow. She knew she had made the right decision, and she made a silent vow to held her husband's son make his home in Winterfell.

… That night, when they feasted in the long hall, Daven was seated on his father's left. His father was a good man, a just man, just like his mother had always insisted, despite him never seeking them out. He never knew the truth about how his parents' marriage was put to an end. His mother merely told him Lord Tywin made his father set his lowborn wife aside.

Daven looked around the hall, illuminated by flickering torches. He looked at his father, presiding at the head of table, at his beautiful lady wife who wore a dress of deep blue velvet that brought out the color of her eyes. Then his glance wandered towards Arya, who was sitting not far from him, laughing at a joke someone told and feeding morsels off her own plate to the direwolf lying meekly at her heels.

As cold as it was up north, Daven thought, he had a feeling he would not be sorry to stay here throughout the winter. 


	2. On raven's wings

"This raven has come a long way," observed Sansa, looking at the royal red wax seal with the three-headed dragon.

"Yes, and the poor bird had nearly frozen to death. I put it in the care of Maester Wendell," said her husband.

"Is this a message from the queen herself?"

"Her Grace sends you her warmest regards and expresses her regret on not being able to come to Winterfell as yet."

Sansa looked at him expectantly, knowing only too well no one would send a raven in the dead of winter just for an expression of courtesy.

"Do you remember Ser Gawen Godsgrace?" asked Tyrion.

"To be sure. We met him in Dorne, didn't we? That was before Her Grace named him Hand."

"Well, his older brother, heir to Godsgrace, had unexpectedly died, and his father is old and feeble and in need of support. Ser Gawen, therefore, asked for his dismissal from the position of Hand, and now is on his way to Dorne like a dutiful son."

"So who will be Hand to the queen now?"

"Well, it appears Ser Gawen has vouched for Andrey Santagar, his cousin or something of the sort – Dorne is not exactly populous, you know, and almost all their noblemen are interrelated – and Her Grace prefers to take a Dornishman rather than one of the lickspittles that have poured to court, clamoring to wiggle their way into the small council. But Santagar cannot come at once, there's some trouble in the Dornish ports that he is supposed to... to be short, sweetling, the queen has asked me to come."

"No," Sansa said at once, "no, she cannot do that, she has named you Warden of the North!"

"It would only be temporary," Tyrion tried to appease her.

"In the middle of winter, only the journey there and back will take months," persisted Sansa, "and a long, hard, perilous journey it will be, too."

"I cannot refuse the queen," her husband said gently.

"Her Grace had already asked you to be Hand once, and you refused."

"It was different back then. We were at the end of war, I was wounded, you were heavy with child... and I could talk to the queen face to face. Now, if I send a raven telling her I'm not coming, she will take it as a slight. You know how prickly Queen Daenerys is."

"Then I am coming with you," Sansa declared. He squeezed her hand gratefully, but his voice was firm when he replied:

"No, Sansa. Someone must remain behind. Arya is half a wildling and Bran still a child. You are the lady of Winterfell, a Stark. Right now, your place is here. Besides, King's Landing is not a healthy place for little Eddard, and I know you dislike the city as well."

That was an understatement. Sansa hated the very sight of the place which served as background for her worst memories – her father's execution, Joffrey's mistreatment, Cersei's intrigues, the Blackwater battle...

"The queen has made it understood she has need of me," added Tyrion.

Sansa smoothed out her skirts, knelt in front of him and put her arms about his neck.

"Not as much as I," she whispered. The past came rushing back at her; she was her mother and Tyrion her father, and he was called to court, telling her that she ought to stay behind.

"If the choice were mine," she heard Tyrion's voice, "I would not spend a single day apart from you."

Sansa smiled, and the smile came out sad, and to erase this impression, she leaned in to kiss him, her lips soft against his. _If the choice were mine_ implied that it is not.

She knew her husband's heart. He was invariably kind, courteous, even gallant, but open display of excessive affection simply was not in his style. What he had just said to her was probably the closest thing to a declaration of love she has had from him in the course of their marriage so far. It didn't trouble her, as a rule. She knew he was hers, body, heart and soul, as few men belonged to their wives. There was but one other woman in the world who could claim rights over her husband.

The queen.

… Arya drew another arrow. It strummed through the air and missed.

"It is the wind," she heard the master-at-arms speak behind her back. _He is too soft on me. He doesn't take me seriously, because I'm a highborn maid who is supposed to sit upstairs doing needlework, not practice archery or jousting. _

"No, Dyrk," she said, "it is my hand. It shook with tiredness," she lowered the bow.

That was but half a lie. Her hand shook, it was true, but with anger rather than exhaustion. She kept going back in her mind to the conversation she had with Gendry earlier that afternoon.

"I will be joining Lord Lannister's escort," he informed her.

"Not you too!" she cried out in dismay. "Is it going to be just the steward and me left?"

"In King's Landing, a landless bastard of a knight can have better chances to distinguish himself than here. I have been in the north since the war has ended. It is time to move on."

"Move on?" Arya's eyes flashed. "The north needs swords. Jon sounded more concerned than ever in his last letter from the Wall!"

"Well, it is not like all men are leaving with the lord," shrugged Gendry. "Daven, for one, is staying," he added pointedly.

"Is he? Well, that's a surprise. I thought he wouldn't miss out on the chance to go to court."

"He confessed to me that he doesn't feel polished enough to presented at court yet," said Gendry. "As for me, since I'm not expecting to turn from poor to rich and from bastard to trueborn in one stroke, like some lucky ones, I ought to make my own way as soon as I can."

The mule-head, thought Arya. Of all the stupid, stubborn, spiteful things to do... she knew the true reason behind his going, of course. He can talk all he wants about making something of himself, about there being nothing for him to do in the north, but she knew full well he went because he thought things were settled between her and Daven.

She flushed. Handsome, easy-tongued, sharp-witted Daven was not acknwoledged by all as Tyrion's trueborn son and heir to Casterly Rock, a breathtaking ascent beyond anything the washerwoman's son had dreamt of. The eligibility of the match between her and Daven was seen, it seemed, by everyone – Sansa, Tyrion, even her younger brothers. And Daven was sure behaving more gallantly to her with every day that passed by. He rode with her, trained with her, learned with her and sat by her side of an evening. He was a great lord's son, and one of the family too. It could have been so easy. So simple.

But for better or worse, Arya Stark has always been too honest to fool her own heart. 


	3. The queen's counselor

The queen rose from her seat when he entered, and pulled him to his feet.

"Lord Lannister," she said, kissing him on both scarred cheeks, "I am more pleased than you can know that you have responded to my summons with such alacrity. I had not expected to see you at court so soon."

"I was on my way within twelve hours of receiving your message, Your Grace," said Tyrion.

"I am sure this was not to your lady's liking," smiled Dany.

"No," admitted Tyrion, "but my lady knows her duty. She, my good-sister and my son will keep Winterfell until I return."

"Your son, yes. Eddard must be all of a little man already," said the queen.

"He is," allowed Tyrion, "although it is my other son I was referring to. Daven."

"I'm afraid I do not understand," frowned Dany, "have you a bastard I did not know of?"

When Tyrion explained, the crease between the queen's brows deepened. "You simply believed this boy's tale without question and proclaimed him your trueborn son and heir?" she sounded incredulous.

"Daven is too much a spitting copy of Jaime to be someone not of my own blood," said Tyrion, "and his story is credible, its details all can be easily verified. Only a fool would lie about something like this. Furthermore…" he swallowed, a shadow of pain over his face. "I have told you about my first wife once, Your Grace. I sometimes see her in Daven's eyes, in his smile, in the way he talks. I… I believe there can be no mistake."

"In that case, why didn't you bring him to court?" asked Daenerys.

"Daven is a clever boy, Your Grace, but he wants instruction. He must be trained and educated now as befits a heir of Lannister, not a bastard of unknown history eating off Nestor Royce's table."

"What place is better to find the finest scholars and masters-at-arms than King's Landing?" said the queen. "I would be most pleased to know your son."

"Winterfell holds certain attractions for Daven no other place can hope to match," said Tyrion with a sly smile.

"Such as snow that lies six feet deep?"

"My son has been taken with my good-sister Arya ever since his arrival," explained Tyrion."It is my dearest wish, and that of my lady wife as well, that Daven and Arya should be wed."

"In that case, let us speak no more for now of his coming here," Dany smiled understandingly, "though I trust the bride and groom will pay a visit at court before progressing to Casterly Rock. Ser Tyrion, if it is weddings we speak of, we have reached a matter where I would ask your honest counsel. I mean to marry."

"An excellent notion, Your Grace," said Tyrion, "a woman as young and lovely as yourself should be wed. Suitors have been clamoring for your hand these past two years."

"Yes," said the queen, "and this fostered much intrigue and tension. I want to end this once and for all by taking a husband."

"Surely Her Grace doesn't mean to marry just to put an end to those squabbles?" Tyrion smiled.

"Well," Daenerys hesitated, "I would probably choose someone young and fair to look upon, someone fit to be king, but other than that… you know what prophecy was made concerning me, ser. I will never bear a living child, and… and I know it is the Iron Throne men wish to marry, not me."

"A woman of your beauty should not think so, if I may be bold enough to say this, Your Grace."

"Regardless, how would I choose a husband?" pondered Dany.

"Draw up a list of all the noble young lords and heirs in the realm, and choose one of a great house you would wish to bind most faithfully to the throne," suggested Tyrion.

"I need not marry to make alliances," said Daenerys.

"Then arrange a tourney, Your Grace," said Tyrion, "and declare that the winner shall have your hand. Of course, you may exclude all the old and ugly, if it is a young and comely man you want," he added slyly.

"I do not necessarily need a man skilled with sword and lance," said the queen, "I would be better off with someone of a quick wit and gentle heart."

"In that case, Your Grace, you will need to give the matter further consideration," said Tyrion, "but here is my advice to you – marry a man of Westeros, my queen. You came here only a couple of years ago, at the head of a foreign army and half a foreigner yourself. If you wed, say, a Tyroshi merchant prince, no matter how rich and powerful he is, you will always be seen as an outsider. You are well loved among the smallfolk, but some fear you… and especially your dragons."

All of a sudden, the queen's expression lightened.

"I believe you have just given me the answer I was looking for," she said, "the man who will tame my dragons shall have my hand bestowed upon him."

Tyrion held his tongue. He wasn't sure whether he ought to envy this lucky bridegroom or weep for him. What he could say with fair certainty, however, was that King's Landing would be piled with charred bones before Daenerys announces her betrothal.

"I haven't offered you any refreshment, Ser Tyrion," said Daenerys, beckoning for wine, bread and cheese. Two cups were filled with fine Arbor gold, and Tyrion drank after the queen did. Arbor vintages were seldom found up north in the dead of winter; most often, he settled for ale with his supper. King's Landing, however, only had a fine dusting of snow now and then, and the harbor was still full of ships.

"In your letter, you hinted at matters of grave importance, Your Grace," Tyrion ventured.

"I have. It grieves me to say this, but I'm afraid some lords in the Seven Kingdoms haven't figured out yet where their loyalties should lie."

_It grieves me to look in the mirror every morning and see that my nose hasn't grown back,_ mused Tyrion, but remained silent once more.

"Storm's End and Dragonstone, in particular," continued Daenerys, "I have sent Tion Darry to hold Storm's End for me, but he returned not six months later with his tail between his legs."

"Your Grace," Tyrion suppressed a smile, so as not to seem insolent. "You will never hold Storm's End with a Darry as liege lord. Storm's End is the Baratheon seat, and to secure it, you need to give its people a Baratheon."

"But who?" demanded Daenerys, "Stannis and Renly died childless, and Tommen is by now commonly known to be your brother's son, not Robert Baratheon's. To be sure, there's the Usurper's bastard boy who was fostered by Stannis, that's true, but he is too young and undistinguished, I cannot place him as lord over all Storm's End bannermen. They would take it as a slight."

"As it happens, Robert had an older bastard son," said Tyrion, "a young man by the name of Gendry Hill, now known as Ser Gendry of Bitterbridge battle. He fought on your side when the outcome of the war was still uncertain, Your Grace, and then went north with us. He spent the chief part of the past three years in Winterfell, and I can attest for his being a fine man, though admittedly sullen and somber."

"Indeed?" the queen looked deeply interested. "And does this Ser Gendry have the Baratheon features?"

"As far as I know, he looks more like Robert than any of his bastards. Cersei wanted the boy dead for this crime," said Tyrion, "but you will soon be able to confirm this with your own eyes, Your Grace. Gendry has come to King's Landing with me."

"Is he aware of his parentage?"

"I am sure he is, though he never speaks of it."

"This could be the solution I was looking for," the queen said thoughtfully, "yet he is a bastard…"

"The taint of bastard birth can be removed by proclamation of the crown. It has been done before," Tyrion pointed out.

"True," said the queen, "but of course, I shall not grant him Storm's End without putting him to a thorough test first."


	4. Chapter 4

"Tyrion will not be pleased," Arya said as she watched her sister fold some underskirts and pile them neatly at the bottom of a trunk.

"Oh, yes he will," Sansa promised with a known smile, "sure, he will grumble and say that I ought not to have taken the risk of a journey, that I should have stayed behind… but he will be thrilled to see us all the same." She lifted up a simply cut gown of blue lambswool. "I think I will leave this one behind," she decided, "it's too old and plain to be worn at court."

"Not to mention it will soon grow too tight," Arya smiled, "have you told Tyrion yet?"

"No. I didn't want to put something like this in a letter."

"You know," Arya said after a pause, "it is a long and perilous journey. In the middle of winter, with so few men to attend you and little Eddard…"

"If I take more men, it will only hinder me," replied Sansa airily, examining another gown now, made of dark green velvet. She folded it and put it in the trunk on top of the underskirts. "I should not have listened to Tyrion in the first place. I should never have allowed him to go alone. He needs me."

For a minute or two Arya watched her quietly, marveling at her sister's determination. This was not the meek and obedient girl she remembered from their childhood, and she found she liked this new Sansa much better. Marriage, war and being the mistress of Winterfell seasoned her, and the relationship between the two sisters grew much closer in the past three years.

"You need him too," Arya observed quietly, "it has taken me a while to get used to this, but you really do."

"Yes," said Sansa, laying aside a bundle of clothes and looking in her sister's eyes, "I do."

The weeks since Tyrion left have been the loneliest in her life. Even more than when she thought all her kin were dead and gone and she was alone in the world. _One flesh, one heart, one soul_. The meaning of those words was clearer than ever to her now. She had already had a letter from Tyrion, sent from King's Landing, and although it was brisk and succinct, Sansa knew her husband's style and recognized his longing for her.

"I suppose you will have to go," sighed Arya, "but the trouble is, _I_ need you too."

"Well, you won't be left all on your own," Sansa said slyly, "Daven will remain behind to keep you company."

Arya blushed but pretended not to hear. "Bran and Rickon are still very young. They need someone motherly around them, and you fit that role so much better than me."

Sansa smiled. "You might feel more motherly once you are wed and carrying a child of your own to give your husband."

"That's not likely to happen anytime soon."

"Come, now," Sansa's said coyly, "I will be very surprised if Daven doesn't make the offer soon."

Arya's cheeks turned an even deeper shade of pink. She snatched a glimpse of herself in the silver looking-glass that was hanging upon the wall. No one had called her Horseface for a long while now. Once she turned into a woman, her teeth were not so big for her face anymore. Her features were not as fine as her sister's, her eyes steely grey instead of blue, her hair burnt chestnut, not lush auburn, and her bosom not nearly as ample as Sansa's. But she was straight as a lance, with long slender legs and a shapely waist, and has had her share of men's covetous glances despite her avoidance of finery and womanly seductive behavior.

"I don't think Daven is going to make me an offer," she said, "and it's better if it is never made, too."

"I thought you liked Daven," Sansa furrowed her brow, puzzled.

Oh, she did. Handsome, sharp-witted, easygoing Daven was just the companion to dispel the gloom of northern winter, but…

"Is it because of Gendry?" Sansa asked shrewdly. "Arya, Gendry is a good, brave man and we all see his worth, but he is too lowborn to ever claim your hand, and a bastard besides. Daven would make you a far more suitable husband."

"This isn't fair," snapped Arya, "both Gendry and Daven grew up as bastards of unknown parentage, and Gendry has done far more by himself than Daven had. Gendry fought, he was knighted, while Daven merely had it announced to him that he is a Lannister and heir to Casterly Rock."

"If I could make Gendry a man of larger consequence, I would," Sansa said gently, "but it is not in my power. You are a Stark, you must consider what is proper while choosing a husband."

"You don't have to tell me all this," Arya's voice was defeated, "Gendry isn't here anymore. He's gone, hasn't he?" _He's gone even though I pleaded with him to stay. He ought to have taken the mule, not the bull, for his sigil._ "He's gone and he's not coming back," she finished bitterly, turning her back on her sister so that her tears would not be seen.

… "Are you Ser Gendry Hill, known as the Bull of Bitterbridge?" asked the queen.

"I am, if it please Your Grace."

Dany carefully studied the boy standing before her. She had never seen the Usurper, but she knew enough to see that the lad had the Baratheon look about him – blue eyes, black hair, a straight nose and a square manly jaw.

"Do you know," she said slowly, "that you are the eldest male that remains of the house Baratheon?"

"I am no Baratheon," said Gendry, polite but stubborn. "I am Gendry Hill, _Ser_ Gendry Hill. I forged my own sword and helm to go to battle, and I will forge myself as well, without using the name of some great fat drunken sot who never knew of my existence and didn't remember my mother's face once he was done with her."

His answer was too bold for Dany's liking, but she sensed he was gruff more than insolent, and decided to overlook his unpolished manner. "You do know who your father was, then."

"Cersei Lannister sent men to kill me for it," he said, "how would I not know?"

Yes, thought Dany. For the crime of having that resemblance to Robert Baratheon which her own children so conspicuously lacked.

"I could undo your bastard status," said Dany, "and proclaim you a trueborn son. I could give you Storm's End, make you a liege lord over dozens of bannermen, and elevate you higher than you ever dreamt of."

The boy's eyes flickered towards her face in a flash of brightest blue, uncertain, questioning, mistrustful. He knew the art of self-control, but was not so apt at it as to hide the look of longing in his eyes.

"For this," said Dany, "I will require a task to be performed by you."

The blue flame in his eyes turned instantly to ice. "I ask no reward for doing what Her Grace commands," said Gendry.

"This is a good answer, ser," smiled the queen, "come, kiss my hand, and I shall tell you what your mission is about."


	5. In the dark

Sansa set out towards King's Landing without sending a raven to her husband. The snow was deep, so she and the Winterfell men who went with her rode in sledges. They would change to horses once they were far enough south. She estimated this was the fastest way to go.

The journey went smoothly. At one crossroads inn, when there was about one week to go until the end of their travel, Sansa and her maid put little Eddard to bed, and Sansa was about to go to sleep herself when she heard a knock on the door.

Her maid opened at Sansa's behest, and she was astonished to see Daven. He stood at the door, shook snow out of his hair, and smiled somewhat awkwardly.

"Daven!" Sansa cried out in surprise. "What – what are you doing here? You may leave us," she told the maid, "and send for some mulled wine. Master Daven is cold."

"I thought I would do best to join my father at court after all," said Daven, sitting down on one of the stools in the room. "I set out later than you did, but one man travels faster than two dozen."

"Well," smiled Sansa, suppressing a certain disappointment this development meant regarding her sister. "I am sure Tyrion will be delighted to see you. Did you leave my sister and brothers well?"

"The lady Arya was as well as can be," said Daven, "so were Bran and Rickon."

"Arya will find it dull in Winterfell now that you are gone," Sansa said pointedly.

"I found it dull in Winterfell once you were gone," he replied, looking boldly at her. His eyes were grey-blue, but he had the golden curled eyelashes of the Lannisters, and the flecks of gold around the pupils.

"I know it can get dull up north, even when it isn't winter," said Sansa, "but surely you had the diversions of riding, hawking and pleasant compa –"

She didn't finish the phrase, because next moment, his arms were around her and his mouth on hers. She was so stunned that she didn't resist immediately, and he thrust his tongue between her lips. He tasted of wine, honey and cloves, and it took a very decisive push on her part to shove him away. He stood within a step of her then, his chest heaving and his eyes shining, looking well and truly drunk.

"You forgot yourself," Sansa spoke, so choked with fury it was difficult to get out the words. "I am wed to your father. I'm your _mother_ now."

"You are too young to be my mother," said Daven, red in the face but unabashed, "and too beautiful by far to be married to my father. Can you really love him?"

_I do love him_, Sansa wanted to say. _I love his valiant heart and pure soul and gentle hand, I love the way he kisses me and looks at me as though I am the only woman in the world._ But she couldn't get the words out of her mouth. She couldn't say this, not to him, not after what had just happened.

"I will not mention this… blunder of yours to your father," she said in a tone of deadly calm. "I hope you will take advantage of the chance to reflect upon you misconduct. I also hope my lord husband never has to regret his acknowledgment of you as his son. Get out now."

He did, without saying another word. Sansa sank onto her bed, her eyes full of tears. She knew she will not be able to tell about his to Tyrion, much as she was loath to keep secrets from her husband. She hoped this was a momentary fit of madness on Daven's part, yet in his eyes she saw shameless lust and Lannister cunning. _I don't know why I should be shocked. The boy's uncle fathered three children on his own sister. It's in their blood._

… Sansa was admitted to Tyrion's solar just as he was taking his solitary supper. When he saw her, he jumped up in astonishment, and his fork fell onto his plate with a clatter.

"Sansa!"

"My husband," she said, casting off her traveling cloak.

"This…" Tyrion was too surprised for eloquence. "You shouldn't have…"

"I shouldn't have let you go alone," Sansa finished, kneeling before him and wrapping her arms around his neck. "The moment you were gone, I realized I should have insisted on coming with you. I gathered the best two dozen men Winterfell could spare, and was on my way."

"Two dozen men?" Tyrion repeated weakly. "Sansa, the roads are perilous, I shudder to think of what could have – "

"Good men, and well trained in arms," Sansa insisted. "Little Eddard and I were well protected."

"You brought little Eddard along as well?" Tyrion frowned.

"You need not be so afraid for me, Tyrion. I am no longer the frightened girl you married."

He sighed. "My sweet, I know you aren't. But you and Eddard are more precious to me than the whole world. I would not be able to bear it if something happened to you two. And I… I thought you would be well pleased to stay safely in Winterfell."

"Winterfell will always be my home," said Sansa, "but I am married now, and my place is wherever you are."

Despite trying to seem cross and stern, her husband could not hide the warm gratitude in his countenance.

"Thankfully, it looks like I will not have to remain here long," said Tyrion. "There was a bird announcing that the new Hand is already making his way to court. I will only linger to oversee the event that will decide who will gain our lovely queen's hand in marriage. Her Grace has declared that the one who tames a dragon enough to ride him, however low the man's birth might be, shall be her husband the Lord Protector of the realm."

"Well, this mission will shorten the lists," said Sansa, "only those who are brave enough shall attempt it."

"Reckless enough, you mean," Tyrion corrected her, and both laughed. "Daven is at court too, you know. You might not know this, for he set out after you did."

"Oh, I know. We met on the road," told Sansa, who decided it was best to tell as much of the truth as she could.

Her husband studied her face, and she knew he realized there was something she withheld, but she kept her silence.

"I had not expected Daven to come here," continued Tyrion, "it appears his understanding with your sister is not as complete as we thought."

"I'm beginning to think there was never an understanding at all," confessed Sansa. "Arya is honest and brave and knows what she wants. I'm sure that if Ser Gendry weren't too proud to bear the thought she is stooping down for him…"

"Speaking of our brave Ser Gendry," said Tyrion, "he is now off on a mission for Her Grace that might serve to advance him… provided he stays alive."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, apparently there are hidden mutters of rebellion in the Riverlands. Some of the lords there have always been less than loving towards the Targaryens… they fought on Robert's side at the Trident, and are still very much sympathetic towards house Baratheon. Our queen is growing to comprehend that things are never black and white, and that the realm would never have fallen into the hands of Robert Baratheon if it weren't for some grave faults on her father's part. Robert was a fat, drunken, whoring sot, but he was no craven at least, and he could be generous and gallant when he wanted to. There's small wonder some still love him… and if they want a Baratheon, then Her Grace must give them one."

"What, Gendry?" Sansa blurted out. "But… he is a bastard."

"A bastard, yes," agreed Tyrion, "but he is Robert's, anyone with a wit of a turnip could see that. And he is a knight, distinguished in battle. He needs lands and a title, and that taint of bastard birth removed by royal decree, and then he will be as great a lord as any in the realm."

"And fit to wed a trueborn daughter of Lord Stark," Sansa added. "Otherwise, he will never go to her… so what is it that Gendry needs to do?"

"Win the rebels to his side, which happens to be the same as Her Grace's," said Tyrion, "surely, there will be some for whom this won't do, and those he will have to get rid of, if need be."

And then he grew silent, and his eyes were stern when he looked at his wife, and his mouth formed a thin line.

"Are you very angry with me for coming?" Sansa asked in a hushed voice.

"I could never be angry with you," said Tyrion, "not really, you know that. But why are you crying, my love?"

_Can you really love him?_ She heard Daven's voice again. She was mortally offended for her husband, the best man in the whole world, and tears ran down her cheeks, and she prayed she'd never have to tell Tyrion what his son attempted to do.

"I was given no choice in marrying you," she said instead, "but it is my choice now never to spend another day apart from you if I can help it."

She rose from her knees, took her husband by the hand and led him from the solar through the library to the bedchamber. She wanted them to be alone in the dark, the only two people in the world. She wanted to see his eyes feast on her, and to feel his hands on her body, skilled and gentle, passionate and teasing. She wanted to hear the words he'd whisper in hear ear, words to melt her heart and to make her giggle and blush.

_In the dark, I am the Knight of Flowers,_ he told her on their wedding night. This was no empty boast. Time has passed, lessons were learned, and now she wanted him with her, in her, a part of her forever.


	6. Bridegroom for the dragon

"This is madness," Tyrion told his son, "you aren't even a knight."

"Looks like being a knight wouldn't help me that much, anyway," shrugged Daven. "Three men with splendid armor and swords have already been burned to death, fifteen more are wounded, and countless were sent running for their lives. At this rate, it looks like the contesters for Her Grace's hand will soon be sparse."

"All the more reason to stay away from this tourney," Tyrion said adamantly, "I am only just getting to know my son, I don't want him to be turned into a live torch by that fearsome black beast."

"I am of age," declared Daven, "you cannot prevent my competing, Father. The queen is a woman of such loveliness no risk would be too much for her, and if I fall, well, then the singers will write verses of my valiance for centuries to come."

"Songs of your foolishness, more like," snapped Tyrion, "very well, Daven. I wash my hands of this, but please, do not hesitate to drop your sword and run. Better be ashamed and alive than stubborn and dead."

"Better be Lord Protector of Westeros, and husband to the most beautiful woman in the world," countered Daven, smiling, "and I won't be needing my sword."

And so, as Daven went into the tourney grounds, where the great black dragon was tethered, he wore no plate, no mail, and no helm, and in his arms he had nothing but a simple wooden harp, which he started playing at once, and the sweetest sounds floated from under his fingers. He was no knight; he knew he could never beat a dragon, and he knew his chances were better with a gentle tune than if he tried to poke the beast in the eye. And to everyone's great astonishment, the enormous dragon bent its knee to the young man, and allowed him to stroke its huge leathery snout, and to mount and dismount it safely.

The queen herself descended from her seat and glided towards him, resplendent in a cloth-of-silver gown with lining the color of her eyes. She took off a gold locket with a dragon engraved on it, and clasped it around Daven's neck, to tumultuous applause from everyone around.

"Ser Daven," she said, "I hereby name you the Knight of Dragonfire. I shall be most honored to be your wife and dub you my Lord Protector of the realm."

"My queen," Daven said, sinking on to one knee before her, "my heart has been yours, from the first day I saw you afar. I belong to you until I draw my last breath."

When Daven led his royal bride towards his father and stepmother, Tyrion and Sansa still looked too shocked for words. Tyrion, however, was beginning to recover and to get accustomed to the thought of being the Lord Protector's father. This notion made him feel, for a moment, almost as tall as anybody in the crowd.

"There are some tests, Lady Sansa," Daven said, brushing his stepmother's fingertips with his lips, "that we need to pass, or else we burn." His bold eyes conveyed the hidden meaning of his words.

She still wasn't sure whether she ought to trust him, Sansa thought, but she knew she need not fear now. The dragon was bound to tame the lion.

… Gendry was satisfied to reach Winterfell in good time, but when he saw Arya's slim figure advancing towards him, he froze. He wasn't ready to face her, not yet, there were words he needed to prepare, for her was never good with –

"You're back," she whispered, her grey eyes finding his blue ones.

"Yes," was all he could say, and it was probably said feebly, because she seized the front of his cloak with fierce determination.

"Listen here, you stupid mulehead," she began with the refined eloquence that so characterized her, "I don't care that you're no lord, because I'm no lady either. If you're back, it should mean you have finally made up your mind. If you won't have me, say it, but spare me the talk about you being a bastard son and a landless knight."

"I… I am," Gendry said stupidly, astonished by this assault.

"You are what?" she snapped.

"A lord," he replied quietly, "Gendry Baratheon, the lord of Storm's End."

Only then did Arya notice that underneath his plain grey cloak he was wearing a doublet with the black-and-gold Baratheon sigil, and that his left arm was stiff with bandages.

"What?" Arya could hardly squeeze out two words. "I – I don't understand."

Then he told his tale. "Her Grace offered me all this as a reward," he said finally, "but I wouldn't have accepted if she didn't tell me she needed me at Storm's End. I… I… I came here for – I mean, I already talked to Lord Lannister, and he encouraged me to seek your - your favor, if you still – if you ever…" He trailed off.

"Will you stop bleating?" Arya said derisively, yet she was beaming, and her smile was instantly mirrored on his face. "Surely you don't think this makes any difference to me? It will appease your pride, though, I hope – and Sansa's too."

"Does it mean…" he was uncertain again. "When you say this doesn't matter to you, do you mean – "

She was close enough now to smell sweat and steel and leather, and her fingers ran through his thick black hair. "Your sigil was a bull, and now it is a stag," she said, "but I still think a mule would fit you best."

Now that he got the answer he came for, he could sigh in relief. "Be quiet, Arry," he grinned.

"There is no way to make me quiet."

"There is," he said, and kissed her.

They stayed out until snow began to drift from the sky, then walked towards the castle together.


	7. In the face of gods and men

When Tyrion returned to Winterfell, he was astounded by the request to perform a wedding ceremony in the face of the old gods.

"There must be some mistake," he said, "I am no septon."

"We have no septons here in the north, m'lord," said the steward, "none are needed in the godswood. 'Tis only proper you should perform the rites, m'lord. You are Warden of the North."

And so Tyrion found himself standing in the godswood, the red eyes of the weirwoods looking eerily at him. He cleared his throat.

"Who comes before the face of gods and men to be wed?"

"The lady Arya, of noble house Stark," answered Jon Snow's voice, "a woman grown and flowered."

"Who comes to claim this woman?"

"I claim this woman," sounded the deep voice of Ser Gendry, "Gendry of house Baratheon, son of Robert, the lord of Storm's End and Dragonstone."

"Who gives her away?"

"I give her away," said Jon, "Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch and son of Lord Eddard Stark."

"Come, then, and kneel before the gods."

Arya and Gendry knelt before the weirwood, their hands linked, their heads bowed in the solemnity of the moment.

"Do you, Lady Arya, take this man to be your husband, to honor and obey, to love and be faithful to, for all the days of your life?"

"I take this man," Arya proclaimed boldly, her grey eyes never leaving the face of her bridegroom.

"Do you, Ser Gendry, take this woman to be your wife, to honor and protect, to love and cherish, until death does you part?"

"I take this woman," Gendry said solemnly.

They rose, and Gendry swept away the white maiden's cloak with the grey direwolf of house Stark and passed it to Jon, then wrapped the black-and-gold cloak of the Baratheons around his bride's shoulders.

"I now proclaim you man and wife, for all time, and no man may set aside what the gods have joined," said Tyrion, finally allowing himself a smile.

Gendry pulled his bride towards him for an ardent kiss, to the clapping and wolf-whistling of the witnesses. Then he offered Arya his arm, and they led a procession towards the main hall, where a feast was already set out, as magnificent as northern winter could allow.

… "I'm still having misgivings about this," confessed Sansa in a low voice, although whispering was rendered quite unnecessary by the sounds of lute, pipes and fiddles, the raucous laughter and the thumping of fists on tables and feet on the dance floor, where the young Lord Baratheon was dancing with his new wife, both of them slightly awkward but beaming with joy nonetheless.

"Oh?" Tyrion cocked an eyebrow. "Do you disapprove of your sister's choice still?"

"Not at all. I have always been of the highest opinion of Ser Gendry's merits, but… I think they should have been content with a betrothal for now. You know Arya, though. Once it was decided on, she wouldn't rest till it was done."

"What would be the point in waiting?"

"Gendry goes to Storm's End, a seat that was granted to him by royal decree, but which only now he will claim. There might be rogues and rebels, lawless people who don't want a strong and noble man ruling over them. People who are capable of anything."

"Such people will soon learn that Arya Stark is even more dangerous than her lord husband when provoked," said Tyrion, trying to reassure his wife by a smile and a squeeze of her hand. "Would it please you to dance, my lady? You know I can't stand with you myself, but it is my wish to see you merry."

"I…" a faint bluish crept over Sansa's cheeks. "Tyrion, I'm not sure dancing is advisable in my… my condition."

_Her condition… her… gods be good. Breathe in. Good, now breathe out. Remember, you have already been through this before. _

"I meant to tell you earlier," Sansa went on, "but somehow, no moment had seemed right. I have a feeling it's a girl this time," she said.

Almost too soon, it seemed, time came for the bedding. The men carried Arya upstairs, peeling off her bride's cloak and her velvet gown and shouting ribald suggestions. Gendry, meanwhile, was pushed in the small of his back by giggling women. There were so many of them that Tyrion urged Sansa to stay away from the commotion and remain in her seat. Ser Gendry – no, Lord Gendry – looked so embarrassed that Tyrion didn't know whether he should be envied or pitied.

Despite his attempts to reassure Sansa, he had his own doubts as well. The storm lords were proud; a decree with a royal stamp on it was not like to make them forget a bastardly taint. All he could do, therefore, was hope that Gendry, to whom he had always been partial, would prove as good in a lord's seat as he had on the back of a battle stallion.


	8. The Stormlord

"We are nearly there," said Arya. Her husband said nothing in reply, and when she looked at him sideways, she realized he is greensick. His face was pale grey, and he was looking in no way very lordly just then. "Haven't you ever been at sea?"

"Not in the open sea, no," Gendry confessed. Then he was silent again. He had been mostly silent throughout their journey, and if he weren't a man sailing for his own royally granted lordly seat, one could almost think he was afraid. "And they don't call this place Shipbreaker Bay for naught," he added.

Their landing was smooth, however, and they were welcomed to the castle by a burly, broad-shouldered man of about fifty years, with a homely but honest face. He had a tall, rough sculpted forehead with a receding line of mousey brown hair.

"My lord," he said with a polite bow, "I am Beric Storm, your steward, if it please you."

"A warm bath and clean dry clothes would please me most just now, to tell the truth," said Gendry with the merest hint of a smile, "my lady wife and I were sprayed with sea water from head to heel."

"Certainly, my lord. We have seen your ship approaching, and accommodations have already been made for you and the lady. If you will follow me," he led them past a vast hall and up a wide staircase. "I have also sought out two good quick girls to serve as her ladyship's handmaids."

"Her ladyship has no need of handmaids," said Arya. "I am perfectly capable of washing, dressing and brushing my hair myself."

This was not unkindly meant, and drew a chuckle from Beric's lips. "Begging your pardon, milady, but you will still need someone to wash and mend your clothes, light your fire and fetch your bathwater."

"When might I confer with my lords bannermen?" asked Gendry.

"The lords of Tarth and Rainwood have already come this morning to pay you homage, my lord, and more are sure to come upon the morrow, even though winter has made sailing more of a trouble. I took care to prepare quarters for everyone you might be expecting."

"Good," said Gendry, just as Beric Storm stopped in front of a heavy oak door.

"If I may be bold enough to say this, my lord," said Beric, not taking his eyes off the young man's face. "I remember both your father and your grandfather, the good Lord Steffon. You have their very eyes. And I know… I know you are going to put this place to rights."

If only he could be half as sanguine, thought Gendry after Beric Storm had gone.

When he looked around the room into which he and Arya had been shown, his breath caught up in his throat. The accommodations were only appropriate for a man of his present consequence, but he wasn't used to opulence, and hardly dared step upon the thick luxurious carpets. The room was spacious, snugly hung with silken tapestries, with a fire blazing merrily in the grate. A great canopied featherbed stood far from the windows, out of the way of a stray draft.

Arya, meanwhile, stripped off her wet clothes and sat on the rug next to the fire, wearing nothing but a light shift. "Get out of that wet wool and come sit next to me," she flashed a smile at him. "The fire is good and warm."

Gendry obeyed, and for the next couple of hours the burdens of lordship, the bannermen and the queen were all forgotten.

… Soon enough, however, Gendry dispatched a messenger to the lords of Tarth and Rainwood, donned fresh garb, brushed his hair, and was led by Beric Storm to his solar, where he was soon joined by Lord Selwyn of Tarth.

"Lord Rainwood will join you shortly, my lord," said Beric, "I will go to him at once, to make sure he knows the way." He bowed himself out of the room, and Gendry was left alone with the lord of Tarth.

"Shall I call for wine, Lord Selwyn?"

"I thank you, no," Selwyn said coolly. "I prefer to wait for Lord Rainwood."

"As you will," Gendry drummed his fingers on the writing table. _This man has cold eyes. He is no friend._ "I am new to the Stormlands, Lord Selwyn, as you well know. I have many questions I hope you can answer."

"I should hope so," said the Lord of Tarth in the same cold voice.

"_I should hope so, my lord_ would please me more," Gendry said mildly. He didn't like those games, but he knew he mustn't let any of his bannermen take liberties with him, or else he would soon end up a toothless lord, one who is mocked by his own household knights in their cups.

His remark got Lord Selwyn up from his chair, his teeth and fists clenched in anger.

"I might be forced by law to call you _my lord_," he said venomously, "yet all I see before me is an upjumped bastard boy of common birth, one of the many seeds sown by the whoring weakness of Robert Baratheon."

For a moment, Gendry studied him, then spoke quite calmly. "Just this once, I will overlook what you have said, Lord Selwyn. It is your good fortune that no one was around to hear your words but myself, elsewise I would have taken your head for rebellion and treason. You and I are united in our loyalty to the queen, and Her Grace saw fit to place me as a liege lord over you."


	9. The lions' den

The raven from Karhold took Tyrion by surprise, for it was from none other than the lord Nestor Royce.

"The Lord Royce? Truly?" Sansa was very much surprised when he told her. "What is he doing in the north?"

"He has come to marry his widowed daughter to the young Ser Rickard, heir to Karhold," said Tyrion. "You know Myranda Royce, I believe?"

"I do. She is a pretty enough girl, fond of gossip, clever in her own way but not a companion I ever felt entirely comfortable around. I can only hope her new husband is to her satisfaction. Otherwise she will never reconcile to being moved to the north from the warm Vale."

"It is not so warm now even there," Tyrion pointed out.

"I know, but still – Karhold is even farther to the north than Winterfell, and company will be even sparser there. For a girl like Myranda Royce, this is cruel punishment."

However, Myranda Royce didn't look like someone suffering under a cruel punishment when Sansa next saw her. In the merriment of the wedding feast, she was the jolliest of all. Her new husband, Ser Rickard, was a good-looking young man, grey-eyed, tall, broad-shouldered and quiet. His countenance was pleasant, and it was clear he was shy rather than sullen.

When Sansa approached the bride to offer her congratulations, Myranda Royce hugged her with all the ardor of girlish giddiness.

"I wish you long years of joy, my lady," said Sansa courteously.

"Randa," the other woman replied, laughing, "or have you forgotten what is due to old friends?"

"Randa, then," Sansa smiled, even though she never grew quite comfortable with this familiarity. "Your new husband seems to be a pleasing and gallant young man."

"Oh, aye, that he does. Still, I wouldn't be shipped off so far if it weren't for the reputation I gained at the Vale. Some way or other, my little indulgences with that Marillion and some other pretty boys got out, and evil tongues took care to blow it all out of proportion and made me look like a dreadful slut. So my poor father had to go as far as Karhold to seek a husband for me. I don't mind, though. Ser Rickard looks like a proper man, or so at least the bedding should prove soon. I hope this time I really will feel like a woman wed, not some greybeard's nursemaid."

When Tyrion and Sansa found themselves face to face with Lord Nestor, he assumed an expression of incredulous delight which was very much like his daughter's and completely at odds with his behavior towards Tyrion while he was a captive of Lady Lysa at the Vale.

"My lord and lady of Lannister," he said, "it is my greatest delight to see you here, at my daughter's wedding."

"The pleasure is all ours, my lord," said Sansa, while Tyrion merely inclined his head.

"And to be sure, I must congratulate you on your son's marriage, my lord," Nestor Royce turned to Tyrion with a sweet smile, "a most splendid conquest, stunning news indeed, something for singers to make verses about for years to come. I have always thought this boy would go far, bright and clever as he was, only I didn't imagine how far, and how soon…"

_Lickspittle_, Tyrion thought savagely, but then he remembered Lord Nestor could be a source of important information.

"I understand you had the charge of my son for many years, my lord," he said.

"Oh, yes. Obscure as his parentage was, I had my guesses – well, the look of him! I knew one day his ancestry would be revealed, and that he would live like a noble man, albeit a bastard. So I made sure the boy would know his letters, and also took care that he would be taught to ride, joust and perform a squire's duties. Of course, I never dreamt he would be acknowledged as a trueborn son of a Lannister. His mother, Tysha, was a good woman, a faithful servant, and a good-looking girl, yet she was simple, humble, and of common birth. I well remember how she first turned up, weak and pale and with a newborn babe at her breast…"

"Are you not mistaken, my lord?" Sansa said mildly. "Daven was a year old when his mother brought him to the Vale."

"Mistaken?" Lord Nestor looked to be taken aback. "No, not I, my lady. I remember it well."

Tyrion and Sansa exchanged a quick glance. "Had Tysha ever told you where she came from, before she reached your household?" asked Tyrion.

"To be sure," Lord Nestor gave him the name of a minor river lord. Tyrion's face darkened, yet he kept his expression blank and managed to sound pleasant as asked Royce a few more questions, then bade him good night, and drew Sansa off to one of the emptying tables. His wife looked puzzled.

"What does this mean, Tyrion?"

"I'll tell you what this means. It means Daven is younger than he told me," said Tyrion, "and therefore, cannot be my son. He is a fraud, and I could have seen through him easily if only I weren't too smothered by guilt to ask the right questions from the start," he finished through gritted teeth.

"Perhaps there is some mistake," Sansa spoke so quietly she could hardly be heard, as the bedding has begun by then, and the bride's squeals of mirth nearly drowned out the men's drunken laughter and randy japes. "Perhaps you should seek out that river lord Nestor Royce mentioned. I'm pretty sure I heard his name before, he's sworn to Riverrun…"

"There will be hardly any need of that," Tyrion said bitterly. "I believe I can figure out what happened here. It was a place my father used once as a six-month camp for him and his host, trespassing upon the hospitality of that poor lordling, shortly after the dissolution of my first marriage. Once I'd believe he would have balked to take his guardsmen's leavings, but after finding Shae in his bed my eyes have been opened to a lot of things about Lord Tywin. Daven isn't my son, Sansa," he added after a brooding pause, "he is my _brother_."


	10. Trust no one

This time, there was no argument between Tyrion and Sansa; he must go to the queen at once, to perform the grievous task of informing her of the mistake they had all made.

"What can be done, though?" Sansa wondered. "Marriage vows are solemn in the eyes of gods and men."

"What might be done is for the queen to consider," replied her lord husband, "my part is to tell her the truth."

Fortunately, Tyrion would not have to go as far as King's Landing this time; the queen and her husband, the newly made Lord Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, were now honored visitors at the Crossing, from where Her Grace would eventually make her way north - but not soon enough for Tyrion to postpone telling her what must be told. As for sending a raven, that was out of the question - who was more likely to intercept a bird than the queen's own husband?

Sansa would be remaining behind in Winterfell this time. Tyrion did not see that he should be detained longer than it took to convey his unpleasant office, and his lady consented to stay home, for the sake of her younger brothers and little son.

Traveling in winter was always slow and uncomfortable, yet now Tyrion found himself wishing the road would slow down even more, so reluctant he was to face the queen and tell to her face that her husband is a fraud. And of course, as it always happens when one wants time to slow down, it speeds up - and soon he found himself face to face with Daenerys, begging for a private audience.

"You look concerned, Lord Tyrion," said Her Grace, "of course, we may speak at once."

She bore the news with reasonable composure, yet her countenance was clouded.

"I'm afraid you took not a lion, but a viper into your bed, Your Grace," Tyrion said bitterly in conclusion. "I beg you, my queen, seek a way to annul this marriage. Surely some path can be found. The boy is unworthy of being a knight, let alone Lord Protector of all Westeros."

"I'm afraid this is impossible," said the queen, a crease between her brows.

"You took Daven of house Lannister for your husband," insisted Tyrion, "should we announce that he really is a bastard by the name of Daven Rivers, there would be a loophole even the High Septon would find good enough to cancel the union."

"Such petty trickery is beneath us," said the queen, "I said that the man who subdues the dragon would be my husband. Any man, even of the commonest birth, bastard or no. Daven is my king and Lord Protector now, although of course," she added kindly, "he will renounce his succession to Casterly Rock. That will go to your son Eddard."

"I am truly sorry, Your Grace," Tyrion said regretfully, "I wish there was something I could do."

"No need to be sorry," said the queen, smiling bravely, "I might have done worse for a husband. Daven is cleverer than most, at any rate, and not so cruel as some. Will you want to speak with him, Lord Tyrion? Just to make sure there is no mistake?"

"I'm afraid there is none, Your Grace, but I will speak to him, just to see whether he is brave enough to face me."

... The calm shamelessness with which Daven met him made Tyrion feel a savage anger. _I should have known_, he thought bitterly. _Unprincipled, treacherous and proud of it. It's easy to see where he got this from. _

"I just want to know," Tyrion said in a tone of forced calm, "how did it happen that my father took for his bedwarmer the same girl he found so very unfit for his son?"

"Well, he didn't marry her, did he?" an evil twinkle shone through Daven's cold eyes. "Once my mother had entertained a barrackful of guards, she was a proper whore, and fit to grace his lordship's bed... for a little while, at least. He never sought her afterward, most likely forgot she existed, and had never known of me. I always knew whose son I was, though, and one day, I swore, I would break the shakles of my pitiful existence."

"Why not tell me the truth, then?" demanded Tyrion. "I hopr I am not known as an unjust man. I would have accepted you."

"Better be accepted as a trueborn son than a baseborn half-brother," said Daven, "however, it is all over and done with."

"Indeed it is," Tyrion replied bitterly, turning his back on this ghost he now wanted so badly to forget, "it is too much to hope that I will never have to see your face again, but it is my most sincere wish to avoid you henceforth as much as I can, Daven."

"This is a lesson for you, my lord," Daven cried out shamelessly to Tyrion's retreating back. "Trust no one. No one but your lady wife," he added slyly, and when Tyrion stopped in his tracks, he added: "She is faithful to you beyond a doubt. Nothing could waver her loyalty."

A spasm of angry understanding passed over Tyrion's face.

"My wife..." he said quietly, "you scheming, treacherous bastard. No wonder Sansa acted so awkwardly around you during our time at King's Landing. My lady doubtless feared to saw discord between father and son. Well, you shall be sorry for this," he promised, "one day, I will make you rue the moment it got into your head to deceive me."

"It is most discourteous of you to threaten me, brother," Daven said, an insolent smile plastered to his face, "I am, after all, your Lord Protector."

Tyrion looked straight at him. The lad stared back, bold, confident, triumphant.

"Seven save us all," Tyrion said bitterly, "you are."

He spun on his heel and marched away, hoping against hope this was the last he saw of Daven Lannister.

A/N: I'm putting this story on hiatus, both because I'm uncertain where I should take it from here, and because I'm swamped by real-life stuff. I hope to continue at some point in the future, though.


	11. Doubts

Paste your document here...

_A/N: I have almost given up on this story, between real-life matters and working on my original fiction… but I decided it deserves to be finished, even if I do it slowly and on a back-burner. _

"I was not made for this," Gendry said darkly, when he and his wife were alone again. "I was brought up to be a smith, at best a master armorer, perhaps a good one… but no lord."

Arya looked at him incredulously. "I can't believe you are talking so," she said, "you are worth a dozen of those puffed-up little lordlings who think so much of themselves, even though each of them owns perhaps a little strip of land between rock and sea!"

"Lord Selwyn of Tarth is a powerful man," objected Gendry with a shake of the head, "I should not like to have him as my enemy."

"And he should not like to have you as _his_ enemy! You are his liege lord! You rule over him, not the other way around – whether he likes it or not."

"Yes, but when it comes to my lords bannermen, I cannot win by sheer power."

"Stannis did," said Arya, "your _uncle_ Stannis. He wasn't loved, but he was always respected."

"But I am not Stannis," Gendry said stubbornly, "neither am I Renly whom everyone adored, nor my father, the king Robert, who could drink more and laugh louder than anyone in the Seven Kingdoms… I am just me. All my life, I had been a bastard, and then came a queen and said I am trueborn… but some things cannot be undone, and people will always remember."

"Let them remember," Arya said viciously, jumping up from her favorite seat in front of the fire. "And you should put some of your mule-headedness to opposing your bannermen, not me!"

"I wish we could leave," said Gendry, "I… you know I never wanted this. It was just for you," his voice softened, "all for you."

"I know," Arya ran a tender hand through his thick black hair, "but you can't leave, and you know it. You can't run back to King's Landing with your tail between your hind legs and tell the queen that you're just not up to the task, and perhaps you can have a less troublesome seat somewhere, or just go back to Winterfell. She placed you here because she needs you, and she expects you to be up to the task. There is a reason she wants a loyal man here."

"I know," nodded Gendry, "the people around here are true to house Baratheon, and many are not at all fond of the Targaryens. The queen suspects… something, I'm not sure even she quite knows what – or if she does, she never told me."

"What are you going to do, then?" asked Arya.

"I don't know," Gendry furrowed his brow, "I shall see more lords and knights on the morrow, and I'm not sure what – "

"You must throw a feast for them," interrupted Arya.

"A feast?"

"Of course," she nodded, "that is what my father always did… I always found that boring when I was little," a reminiscent smile appeared on her lips, "but I realize now it is necessary. We'll give them a feast with the best of what we have… and I promise I won't run off to the kennels or stables like I used to do at Winterfell."

"Sounds like a good idea," Gendry said cautiously.

"I'll talk to the steward, to make sure we have enough provisions and good wine and… I hope there's a decent seamstress somewhere around this castle. My best gowns will need to be altered… at the bodice, you know," Arya blushed, "I have… filled out a bit."

"That you have, m'lady," said Gendry with an appreciative chuckle.

"And you'll have to stop saying _m'lady_, too," said Arya, "it doesn't befit your current station. It should be _my lady_ from now on."

"Agreed," he slipped his arms around her, "my lady of Stark."

… Late at night, when they were snug and warm under the feather blankets in their wide canopied bed, a sudden rapt knock on the door woke them. Arya's instincts were the faster ones; she sat bolt upright and reached for her clothes at once, quick and nimble as a cat. Gendry sat up groggily, rubbing his eyes.

"Who in seven hells – " he said drowsily, but Arya was already at the door.

"Who is it?" she called.

"It is Beric Storm, my lady," sounded the steward's hushed voice, "I beg your pardon for the hour, but this matter does not suffer delay."

"Beric?" Gendry opened the door. "What is the matter?"

"If I may be bold enough to beg to come in… thank you, my lord… and please, bolt the door. It won't do if we are overheard."

"What is going on?" demanded Arya.

"My lord… my lady," said Beric Storm, looking from Gendry to Arya, "I did not dare to approach you at any other hour, because it might cost me my life. But I could not remain silent either," he now looked directly at Gendry, "I was fond of your father… and of your uncles too, even though three boys more different have never been born in one house. And although I hardly know you, my lord, yours is the last remaining blood of the Baratheons."

"Not quite," Gendry corrected him dryly, "we both know my royal father left at least a dozen bastard children behind him."

"True," admitted Beric, "but you are the eldest, and as there were no legitimate sons, you are the heir of Robert Baratheon. And my loyalty lies with you, my lord."

"That is good to know," said Gendry, "but what…"

"Lord Gendry," continued Beric Storm, "you must be careful." The tone in which he said this made the hairs on the back of Arya's neck prickle. "There are some who plot against you… who aim to kill you."


	12. The warning

Sansa had just finished dressing for the day, with the help of her handmaid. Tyrion was pulling on his boots when the messenger came.

"A letter from the Lord Protector, if it please m'lady," said the servant with a low bow, handing Sansa a tightly rolled-up scroll with Daven Lannister's own seal, the roaring lion of Lannister presumptuously coupled with the mighty dragon of Targaryen. Sansa unfurled the scroll and quickly scanned the letter.

"What is it?" asked Tyrion with a furrowed brow. Sansa gave him a troubled look. "The... Lord Protector invites me to break my fast with him in his private chambers."

"Indeed!" Tyrion had rarely sounded more displeased. "Well, the sneaking bastard can hardly be unaware of the fact that I am called to the queen's Council first thing in the morning, and am to breakfast there. You would be alone with him. I do not believe you should go."

"Where are you going?" Sansa called after the messenger, who made to turn toward the door. "Will you not wait to deliver my reply?"

"The lord of Lannister made it clear none was expected," said the servant, and with another bow, went out and shut the door behind him.

"No reply expected!" fumed Tyrion. "It is no invitation, then; he is summoning you, as if you were in his service! He does not think you would dare to refuse - well, it is time to teach him some humility."

Sansa looked uncertain. "I... I'm not sure, Tyrion, but perhaps I should go - if he is expecting me and I never appear, it will be seen as insolence. He_ is _the Lord Protector, after all... and I do not believe any great harm would come of this breakfast. Your... brother wouldn't dare to do anything... inappropriate. Not here at court."

"Do not call him that," Tyrion said furiously, "he is not my brother, even though my father, by an unfortunate twist of fate, planted his seed in the womb of a woman I had once taken to wife."

"I believe I will go," Sansa said more confidently. "Just... just make sure you mention to the queen that I am breakfasting with her lord husband," she added. Tyrion nodded, with a softer expression on his face, and kissed her hand before leaving as a sign that none of his anger is directed towards her.

When Sansa arrived at the apartments of Queen Daenerys and the Lord Protector, Daven was already waiting for her, and a breakfast table was set sumptuously for two. Upon her entrance, Daven got up and greeted her with all appearance of pleasantness.

"Lady Sansa," he said, "words cannot describe how happy I am made by your arrival."

"That is kind of you to say, my lord," Sansa said coolly, "but since your delivery man did not wait for me to write an answer, I must tell you in person that I consider this invitation less than... wholly proper."

"Oh, come," Daven laughed airily, "what can be improper about me having breakfast with my own... good-sister? If my gracious queen and your noble lord husband weren't so busy with matters of state, they could have joined us."

_Yes_, thought Sansa, _but I am almost certain you made sure they would not. _

"I have dismissed the servants, my lady," said Daven, "do allow me to fill your goblet."

"I thank you, but no. No wine for me this early in the morning." _Not to mention in my condition, but he needn't know about that yet._

"As you please," shrugged Daven, reaching for the flagon to fill his own goblet. "This is good Arbor gold, and no hour is too early for such vintage."

Sansa looked at the swirl of the golden liquid in the cup he brought to his lips. There was Arbor gold, she remembered, in the chamber she and Tyrion shared on their first night together, the night filled with reluctance, bitterness and fear. So much time has passed and so much has changed since then, and nothing was as it once had been... including her. _You may be a lion, _my lord, _but I am a direwolf. Lady's spirit lives on in me._

"I will have a glass of milk," said Sansa, as to not appear discourteous. The table was laden with bread and cheese and olives, and fruit from the hothouses. There were eggs boiled soft, and bacon crisply fried, and a crock of butter and plates of jam and a pot of honey. Sansa had some bread with butter and honey, but otherwise the bounty in front of her remained untouched. With a fluttering heart, she was waiting for the revealing of the true motive she was sure existed behind Daven's invitation.

"It was satisfying to learn the news about your sister's marriage," the Lord Protector said courteously, "I hope that now it can be safe to apologize if I ever led the lady Arya into... false hopes. I assure you it was unintentional."

"You trifled with her affections, as you very well know," Sansa burst forth, unable to restrain herself, and this gave her some very uncharacteristically savage pleasure. "If Arya remained unwounded, it was only thanks to the constancy of her own heart, but behavior such as what you displayed towards her - "

"Your sister made a most notable alliance," Daven pressed on, ignoring her admonitions, "but alas, it is one that may cost her her life."

A ringing silence fell. "Wh-what?" Sansa said quietly. "What do you mean?"

"Storm's End may well live up to its name quite soon," said Daven. "That area is the least loyal to the throne, and I have knowledge of a rebellious group that is operating there with a plan to overthrow the liege lord Queen Daenerys placed over them. Your good-brother, the lord of Baratheon, may be killed... and if he is, your sister will be taken hostage - at best. If the ones doing the deed are savage enough, they may get rid of her just in case she is carrying Lord Gendry's child."

"How do you know this?" demanded Sansa.

"I have my sources," Daven replied vaguely.

"Does the queen know about it as well?"

"Do you imply I would keep secrets from my beloved queen?" said Daven, and Sansa did not like the steely look in his eye.

"If you know something like this might happen," she said, "surely you can stop it before it comes to pass?"

"It may be complicated. In some instances, it is good to appear to know less than you do. A secret message, of course, will be dispatched to Lord Gendry... and I hope it will not be too late to put him on his guard. As for you, Lady Sansa, I urge you to write to your sister and press her to leave Storm's End at once. She should get herself out of harm's way."

Even as she listened to him, Sansa shook her head. "Arya will never do that," she said, "she will not consent to leave Gendry."

Daven fixed her with a stern gaze. "You would do well to tell her it is her _duty_ not to make an easy target for the rebels out of herself," he said.

"Why do you care so much about Arya?" asked Sansa. And again, there was something in Daven Lannister's green eyes she did not like at all. It was not anger or arrogance this time. It was worse.

"It is you I care about," he said softly. "You and my noble brother," he amended, "although he made it plain he doesn't want anything to do with me."

"Which is hardly something to be marveled at," Sansa couldn't help but say. "You deceived us from the first. You made us believe you were someone who never existed. You lied - "

Daven raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I know," he said, "I know. But this doesn't mean you will reject my advice, will it? Not when your sister's life is at stake?"


	13. The catspaw

_It is a feast, but it feels more like a battle, _mused Arya as she sat next to her husband, dressed in her most splendid gown and smiling a brave, if a bit strained, smile. Gendry was looking very lordly too, in his tunic of black velvet with the golden stag of Baratheon embroidered on it. Both were avoiding each other's eye, and in Arya's mind, the echoes of the argument they had earlier still sounded clearly.

... "Well, it is clear what you must do, at least," Gendry said calmly, folding Sansa's message. "You are leaving Storm's End and going to back to Winterfell. You will be safe there."

"I am doing no such thing!" Arya exclaimed indignantly. "I'd like to see you try and make me, too!"

He looked short-tempered. "I don't think you realize how grave the danger - "

"Gendry, it's _me_," she interrupted him exasperatedly, "Arry. Weasel. Nan. We rode together through half of the Seven Kingdoms! We fought together. You have seen me kill... when I had to. I'm not some delicate little flower who..."

"That was different," he cut across her. "You are my wife now. My _lady_ wife. You could be pregnant with my child."

"I'm not," Arya said, blushing.

"You can't know that," he insisted, "and besides, Arya, I'm not arrogant enough to think I am the main target for the men who are behind this plot, whoever they are. They are aiming for general rebellion - against the queen. Taking both our lives would be about as meaningful to them as swatting a fly."

"It doesn't matter," said Arya, "I'm _not_ leaving you."

He folded his thick arms over his muscular chest. His black eyebrows were knitted together in a frown. "I am your lord and husband," he declared, "and if I say you must go, you will go."

"Indeed?" Arya's eyes blazed with the steely glitter of house Stark. "Going to tie me down and heave me on the deck of a ship like a barrel of tar? Because this is the only way you will get yourself rid of me, _my lord_."

Gendry lowered his arms in a gesture of reconciliation, and his voice was soft when he spoke. "Be reasonable, Arya."

"If I were, I wouldn't have married you," she replied nastily.

This stung. "And what is that supposed to mean?" he asked, his bright blue eyes narrowed. "Am I still not good enough for you, even as a Baratheon?"

This made her angrier than anything he had said before, and she came forward and gave him a strong and painful push, like she had done all that time ago. But this time he was prepared and didn't lose his balance - and didn't laugh, either. "You stupid stubborn thick-headed aurochs!" she exclaimed furiously. "You were all I wanted, and youshould have_ known _it_, _with or without that stupid stag on your clothes and seal! But I'm not sure it's reasonable to love a man who treats me like - like I always need to be protected and hidden from the world, from what I want, from what I feel! I'm not a child!"

"I never said you were!" he raised his voice.

"But you think I am!" she retorted. "In a way, you still see me as that little girl in dirty clothes whom you challenged to take out the cock she didn't have."

A faint pink tinge appeared on his cheeks. "You could stop reminding me of that," he said, "at least for a while."

"Listen, _my lord_," Arya jabbed a finger into the steely muscles of his chest, but just as well she could have tried to prod a mountain. "You might be my husband, but this doesn't mean you can make me do something I don't want. Especially when it makes no sense."

... She won, and stayed to dress for the feast, but she had never seen Gendry more distant with her, and this was a painful price to pay. _Doesn't matter. He will see in the end that I were right. _Arya scanned the feasting hall with her eyes, looking for a suspicious face, a glance of doubtful meaning. _Lord Selwyn? But no, this one is a man of honor, as unpleasant as he may be. He openly declared his dislike. _Someone somewhere down the long table stood up, goblet in hand, proposing a toast for the new lord and lady, and was answered by a wave of cheers. _Lickspittles or true friends? _There was no way to know for sure.

She rose from her seat, but was stopped by Gendry's hand on her sleeve.

"Where are you going?" he asked sharply. Ever since they received the warning, he has been reluctant to let her out of his sight. This, however, was more than Arya could stomach.

"To the privy," she replied in loud, ringing tones. Thankfully, few could overhear her over the clang of plates and goblets and the raucous laughter and song that filled the hall. Abashed, Gendry let go of her arm without even suggesting that someone should accompany her.

Instead of continuing towards her declared destination, however, Arya decided to slip outside. The air inside the hall was so smoky and stuffy, and she was grateful to draw long breaths of cold, clear, sharp sea air. Ominous clouds swirled above, threatening snow, but a couple of stars and a thin, pale crescent moon shone now and then in patches of clear sky. Waves were crashing on the shore. They must have muffled the steps of the one who crept close, quick as a cat, and grabbed Arya from behind.

He couldn't know, however, that he was unfortunate enough to choose for his target the lady who knew all about swordsmanship. _Stick them with the pointy end. _Arya didn't usually carry a sword anymore - she was, after all, a proper lady now, as much as the idea had taken getting used to - but there was always a good dagger of Valyrian steel hidden down her bodice, and in a mere second her knee was dug deep into the man's groin and she sat on top of him, the steely point in her hand pressing firmly against his neck. A drop of blood appeared when her hand trembled.

"My - my lady," croaked the man. He was middle-aged, thin and scrawny like an underfed dog, and altogether unremarkable-looking. "This... release me... I swear... a mistake..."

"Mistake?" hissed Arya. "You tried to abduct me or kill me or - "

"... I swear... forgive... weak old man..."

"Who hired you?" Arya's sweaty hand tightened its grip on the dagger. "Answer, or you shall feel just how deep my dagger can bite in one stroke!"

"N-no need... n-nothing personal..."

"Who?" demanded Arya, twisting the blade and breaking the skin to make a red droplet roll down. "Speak. _Now_."

The catspaw swallowed, his eyes wide and fearful. "Lord Royce," he said, "N-nestor Royce."


	14. Littlefinger returns

"Do I absolutely have to meet him face to face?" Sansa asked reluctantly.

"I'm afraid it is unavoidable," Tyrion said darkly, "you know I would gladly push that slimeball against a wall and bash his head in until it's nothing but bloody pulp. Still, it seems that, Baratheon or Lannister or Targaryen, Littlefinger will be able to worm his way into every court. And although Queen Daenerys has enough penetration to prevent her from falling for the dubious charms of Petyr Baelish, he _is _the Lord Protector of the Vale still. We were invited and will have to attend that supper, but fear not. You will not be alone with him. You will not even need to exchange a word with him, beyond common courtesies."

"I am not afraid of him," Sansa hastened to clarify. "It's just... the very thought of him is... revolting." Tyrion nodded. She knew he understood. The last conversation she had with Petyr Baelish involved him trying to get under her skirts, and she wasn't very likely to forget that any time soon. "I will be very surprised if he isn't still trying to pull strings behind the scenes," she added thoughtfully. "I keep thinking of the last message from Arya... _Nestor Royce... _why would he be involved in a rebellious plot that is going on so far away from the Vale? Don't you think Baelish might be behind it?"

Tyrion shook his head. "It would have been too obvious," he said, "the whole affair smells of crude work, not fitting Lord Littlefinger's style. That catspaw - he wasn't a very skillful one, was he? With all due respect to your sister's outstanding bravery and quick wits, a Faceless Man would have done away with her no matter what. Anyway, now that the man is dead, there is no chance to pull more facts out of him, and we cannot corner Nestor Royce on the basis of something a filthy commoner had said at the point of a dagger."

The news of the attack on Arya were shocking, but the death of the catspaw was perhaps the most blood-chilling part in the whole affair. The night after his arrest, he was found alone, locked in his cell, with his throat cut from ear to ear. All the gaolers were questioned, all denied having anything to do with the cold-blooded murder, and all deemed equally unlikely to have been involved. However, it was clear someone was trying to prevent the man from speaking further. For now, all was quiet in the Stormlands, but no one was foolish enough to hope the peace would be permanent. The rebels were simply biding their time.

... At supper, Sansa entertained the hope that Littlefinger wouldn't dare to go near her, but as soon as she appeared before his eyes, he walked towards her with a bold swagger, got hold of her hand and kissed it with a flourish.

"Lady Sansa," he said, "you look lovelier than ever."

Sansa flushed with indignation. She was infinitely grateful for the way Tyrion promptly got between her and Littlefinger, and led her to sit safely by his side. Even so, she was always aware of Lord Petyr's shameless, insolent stare. He watched every tilt of her head, it seemed; every movement of her hand with the knife and fork, every swirl of her auburn curls. She, for her part, avoided looking at him, but her memories of Petyr Baelish came rushing forward all the same: cold, cunning, unprincipled, manipulative, and far more dangerous than most people would give him credit for.

The supper was small - just the queen and her lordly husband, Tyrion and Sansa, and Lord Petyr. Sansa wished there would have been more people. Being in such close company with Littlefinger was unnerving.

"How is the state of affairs in the Vale, Lord Baelish?" asked Queen Daenerys. "Do you intend to remain long at court?"

"Alas," Littlefinger let out a sigh that would sound genuine to anyone but Sansa, who knew him best of all present. "I am afraid it is out of my power. In the Vale, too, there are most disturbing murmurs and mutters of those who are foolish enough to oppose the wise rule of our fair queen."

"Foolish?" Daven interjected. "I would use stronger words, my lord."

"Words are wind," shrugged Baelish, "the important thing is that you watch your step, Your Grace," he looked directly at Daenerys.

"My beloved queen has nothing to fear," Daven said protectively, taking the hand of Daenerys, a gesture which was followed by no emotion upon the queen's face. "Her enemies, however..."

Sansa ate very little of the main course, and hardly touched the cheese and sweets. Tyrion's appetite appeared to be no greater. Both were relieved to be alone again, in the privacy of their chambers, where Tyrion kicked off his boots with a satisfied groan and landed on the bed.

"I will say one thing for our young queen," he said, "she appears to be sober in regard to our friend Petyr Baelish. She trusts him not."

"What do you think he is doing here?" Sansa asked with a frown. She, too, took off her shoes and put her feet up. Her belly was still quite flat, but her feet were already beginning to swell, and Tyrion bent forward to massage them. "He hasn't left the Vale in years. What is he up to now?"

"Whatever it is, I'll wager it is nothing to be happy about," replied Tyrion. His fingers made circles around Sansa's ankles, again and again, slowly and steadily. "He knew he did nothing in particular to win the queen's favor when she came to rule, and so decided to shut himself in the Vale, snug and comfortable. But now he sniffs trouble, and he is upon it like a carrion crow. If things continue to progress like they are, we'll find ourselves with a full-blown rebellion on our hands, and I won't be at all surprised if the center of it is right here, in King's Landing."

"You think so?" Sansa asked sharply.

"I am sure of it. Whether Littlefinger's advice was genuine or mocking, he is right - the queen must be careful. She would do well to remember what happened to the last occupants of the Iron Throne."


	15. The second snake

She heard steps, and immediately experienced a sense of foreboding. Tyrion sometimes came to seek her in the godswood, but these footsteps didn't belong to him. They were terribly familiar, however, and it didn't take her too long to figure out whose steps these were. Just as she realized this with a jolt, Littlefinger stepped out, a faint smile outlining his lips at the sight of her nervous surprise.

"Don't be afraid, Sansa," his voice was soft. "I come as a friend... as always."

A sarcastic gurgle was about to come up her throat, but she stopped it in time. Her septa's instruction was too firmly ingrained. _Let only ladylike sounds escape your lips. Your speech should be like song, your laughter like the strumming of a golden harp. _

"I have nothing to be afraid of, Lord Petyr," she said coldly.

"You have never been a good liar," he said with amusement. "I know you are afraid of me right now - but with no reason. I hold no grudges against what is long past... although for a long time, I have wondered. I wished to give you myself, and you ran off in the dead of night, risking your life - with the Imp. Was that choice better than what I had to offer?"

_Offer. That is one way to put it. _"I was a woman wed," said Sansa, "I chose to join my husband."

"Yet you uttered no word about joining your husband in a cell beneath the Red Keep when I smuggled you out of King's Landing, after Joffrey's wedding," a cynical smile twisted Littlefinger's lips.

"I assure you I followed my heart as well as my duty," Sansa's voice was frosty as the walls of Winterfell.

"Well, well. Let us talk no more of the past. You are lovely as ever, Lady Sansa, and I must say you did very well for yourself. Your Imp is an important man with our gracious queen... may her rule be long and prosperous."

Something in Littlefinger's last words put Sansa on her guard. "Why wouldn't it be?" she asked. "Long and prosperous, I mean."

He shrugged. "For this, I can give a dozen reasons - not the least of them the rash way in which Her Grace saw fit to choose a husband."

Sansa's eyes narrowed. "Explain yourself, my lord," she said warily.

"His Grace, known as Daven the Daring, the queen's consort and Lord Protector of the Seven Kingdoms. How well do you know him, Sansa?"

"I have known him a relatively short time," said Sansa, trying to keep her face blank. "He appeared in Winterfell all of a sudden and declared himself to be - "

"I am familiar with the story. He lied to you, until there was no reason to hide the truth. Well, I have known him longer. He grew up in the household of Nestor Royce, as you know. You never noticed him when we visited, but I have - and naturally, my eye was drawn to his features. I knew this boy was a Lannister, and bastard or no, I knew greed would propel him further than could be reasonably expected. A family trait," he smiled nastily, "no offense meant to your noble husband."

"Why are you telling me this?" asked Sansa.

"You do know Nestor Royce paid the miserable bugger who was supposed to dispose of Lord Gendry - and if provoked, of your sister as well? You probably realize that Royce, by himself, had no interest in doing something like that. He was a no more than a pawn himself."

"Yes," Sansa said stiffly, and this short word drew on a look of amazed understanding from Littlefinger. He chuckled.

"Gods be good! You thought this was _my_ game, Sansa? You insult me. I have enough acquaintance everywhere, including the Storm Lands, to act through a short chain of local lordlings. I wouldn't need Nestor Royce, who is from so far away, and so obviously allied with me. Your good-brother, however... he doesn't have many men of his own yet, save for where he grew up, and unless I am an abysmal judge of character, he is a young man of a cunning but crude mind, with ambition that cannot be satisfied as a co-ruler. He wishes to seize the throne for himself."

Sansa paled. "This... we had our misunderstandings with Daven, but he wouldn't dare..."

"They don't call him Daven the Daring for nothing," Littlefinger pointed out.

"But... he tried to _warn _me about Arya - "

"Indeed?" Littlefinger asked sharply. "And how come was he so well-informed as to issue such warnings? I would have expected you to know better by now. I tell you, Sansa, I have not the least wish to see this boy on the Iron Throne, and I will be keeping a close eye on him. A very close eye indeed."


	16. Deceiver of fools

As Sansa told her husband of her conversation with Littlefinger, the look of troubled mistrust grew deeper and deeper on his face.

"You should have stayed behind in Winterfell this time," Tyrion said, shaking his head. "I don't like this. I can't think rationally when I know you aren't safe."

"In some respects I am safer here than in Winterfell," Sansa said reasonably. "It is warmer here, and we are farther from the Wall - and you know that even though it was rebuilt, it isn't what it once was. Dark things can slip through it more easily, and thousands of them still linger in the forests of the North..."

"But nothing is darker than what lingers here, in the court halls of King's Landing," Tyrion cut her off. His face was grim. "I will never believe Petyr Baelish can do something without ulterior motives. Why did he tell you what he did just now? He must have known it would come to me through you. Did he mean to convey I should not trust Daven? I don't anyway. But whether he can really be behind something like this..." he massaged his aching temples with his fingers. "I wish I could speak to the queen, but I daren't do this without tangible evidence. Even though she has no illusions about her husband, I believe she is involuntarily warming up to him. Daven is a careful flatterer, and he always takes great pains to proclaim his devotion... and Queen Daenerys is still very young."

"You should think of it all some more," Sansa said softly, "but not now... upon the morrow. We didn't sup early only to allow our evening to be ruined by suspicions and plots which might be beyond our comprehension."

Tyrion lifted his face up to her and beheld her with an expression of awe and wonder. "Do you know how beautiful you are?" he asked quietly.

She smiled. He always told her she was beautiful. Even when morning sickness made her look greensick; even when she was nine months along and her belly seemed to be bigger than herself; even when sleepless nights with a nursing babe left dark circles under her eyes. He kissed her; lightly at first, then deeper. His lips traced the outline of her jaw, her neck, her shoulder, and Sansa was filled with the delightful desire for _more_. Tyrion's face was buried in her hair, and he murmured something. It might have been _"I love you"_, but she didn't count on that. She knew that perhaps the armor of his soul would never allow him to release these three simple words out of his mouth, but it didn't matter. He belonged to her, and she to him, and what she saw in his eyes - the desire, the passion, the need, the tenderness - was more and beyond every word that could be uttered in a human tongue.

"Sansa," he said in a strained voice, "do you know how I felt after we were wed? Like a man who ambles in a scorching desert until he is about to faint with hunger and thirst and fatigue, and there is not a bit of shade or a drink of water to alleviate his suffering. And then he stumbles upon a lovely garden ensconced in a tall wall all around it. He can see the tops of the trees and the scent of ripe fruit drifts towards him, and he hears the splash of cool fountains, but there is a tall iron gate and it is locked and he thinks that perhaps he is unworthy of entering. And although life and relief and respite are so near at hand, they are unreachable, and the poor wanderer is driven insane with hopeless longing. Right outside that tall gate, he is dying. _Dying_, Sansa."

"I think I was dying too, although I never realized it," Sansa whispered, "I don't know what would have happened to me if you hadn't come to the Vale and offered me to escape."

"I thought I owed you that rescue," Tyrion nodded, "but I didn't think I would have you. I hoped, perhaps, that you would be a little less disgusted with me..."

"Do not talk so," Sansa said quickly, and her distress must have been obvious, because her husband took her hand and kissed it with tender reverence, and she leaned in and kissed him on his lips. She had grown so accustomed to the scars of his face that she no longer felt them when they touched, and his tongue was sweet, and she shivered with the anticipation of even deeper pleasure.

... In the morning, Tyrion eased himself from under Sansa's arm and dressed swiftly and silently. He couldn't sleep, and lying awake in the dark, pondering possibilities, was worse - he felt more tired than he did when he went to bed, but it was better now that he was up on his feet. Deep inside, he was resolved even when his suspicion against Daven arose for the first time. _Gods, I am actually going to do this._ He slipped a long, thin, deadly sharp dagger of Valyrian steel into an inner pocket of his clothes._ I must be prepared._

He knew that Her Grace and her lordly husband would be out hawking on this fine morning, and although he knew that if he were caught, he will be accused of treason and will lose, at best, every position of significance, and at worse his life, he still had to do this.

He made his way unhampered until he was in the corridor that led to the royal chambers. Two guards stood there in full armor, their spears pointing upwards. Tyrion approached them with the air of anxious urgency. "I heard a suspicious noise down two flights of stairs," he said, "go and check what it is about."

The guards exchanged a hesitant look. "We can't do this, m'lord," one of them said, "we must keep our position."

Tyrion frowned in false anger. "Do you know who I am?" he demanded.

"Yes, m'lord," the guard said in a faltering voice.

"I command you to go down and investigate, and woe betide you if you refuse. Do you think the queen would look kindly upon your behavior if I mention it to her when she returns?"

Shuffling their large feet, the guards went on their way. Tyrion procured a bunch of keys that used to belong to Varys and, miraculously, survived all the many journeys and perils that befell him since his days as Hand of King. A key turned smoothly in the key hole, and he slipped in and locked the door behind him.

The carpets muffled his steps, but he shouldn't wonder if half the Red Keep might hear the beating of his heart. What you are doing is madness, he told himself; even if Daven is guilty of treason, what is the chance to find anything incriminating here? But on the other hand... who would look for the tangle of a rebellious plot right in the private chambers of the Lord Protector? And his Queen, of course, would be too noble and delicate to pry into his personal affairs...

Tyrion progressed carefully, opening drawers and unfurling rolls of parchment, until...

He froze. The paper-box wasn't even _locked_. This boy sure had a nerve. Heart pounding as if it was about to jump out of his chest, Tyrion ruffled through some letters, his indignation and incredulity growing in dramatic proportion with each passing second. He almost forgot where he was when he heard the dreadful sound of a key turning in the lock - not of the main entrance, but one of the sideways... and before he could think, before he could plan how he would react, or come up with a possible explanation - Daven Lannister - or Daven Rivers, as he preferred to call this cunning bastard - stood in front of him, and Tyrion was caught with the incriminating letters in his hands.

Daven grew white - with fury, not fear. _Careful, _Tyrion warned himself. "What are you doing here, you sneaking traitor?" His half-brother hissed.

Tyrion could hardly breathe with rage. "You call _me_ traitor, _brother_?" _Calm down. "_I should have known," he went on quietly, "there was no end to Tywin Lannister's ambition. It is clear where you get it from."

"I want nothing unreasonable," said Daven insolently, "a son of my own blood on the Iron Throne. Daenerys, as lovely as she is, cannot give me that. With no heir, squabbles for the throne will ultimately arise, and the Seven Kingdoms will be plunged again into chaos. There is but one way to avoid this."

"Oh, so we are talking about the good of the realm now. How selfless."

"There is no need to be waspish, _brother_. If I could take a second wife, I would. But unfortunately, this noble tradition has been discontinued."

"What a pity," Tyrion said dryly. "Is Littlefinger your man?" he shot a question.

Daven let out a mirthless laugh. "Lord Petyr? He is no one's man but his own. He will never commit himself to one side before it is certain to be victorious. But he is not at all loath to get into my good books." Of this Tyrion had no doubt. The extent of Littlefinger's duplicity could be hard to measure even now.

"Did he stir the kettle for you? The rebellion... there was no rebellion in truth, was there? You paid people to muck things up so that a plot to murder the queen would seem the result of general mutiny."

Daven didn't answer, but fingered his belt. Tyrion hardly had to wonder why. His noble knight of a brother probably had his own blade of Valyrian steel that he carried hidden in his clothes.

"So," continued Tyrion in a tone of forced calm, very aware of the fact that Daven has no intention of letting him leave the chamber alive. "Whom did you plan to wed, once you disposed of Queen Daenerys?"

"Why," Daven smiled sweetly. "Your grieving widow, of course - after an appropriate length of time. _She_ already proved to be fertile, after all."

It all happened very fast. Tyrion growled through clenched teeth, and both men reached for their steel at the same time. Daven was taller and stronger, but Tyrion, although his stature was small and his legs stunted, had the advantage of experience - and cold fury seemed to have improved his aim. He did not hesitate. He wanted to kill.

His dagger went through Daven's chest like a table-knife through a crock of butter, and his devious brother fell, spouting blood. Tyrion stood with the bloody dagger in his hand, chest heaving, mesmerized at the red puddle collecting underneath Daven's body. He fought the urge to retch.

Finally, he managed to uproot his legs from the floor and take a step back. His knees turned into jelly, and he collapsed on the royal canopied bed and, hardly thinking of what he was doing, wiped the blade on the bedcovers. The red smears were sickening.

"Well," Tyrion said hoarsely, "I rid the world of Lord Tywin. It is only fitting I should have dealt with his vile spawn as well."


	17. Epilogue

Before their final stretch of road back to Winterfell, Tyrion and Sansa came to Storm's End to visit Gendry and Arya. Naturally, the plot to murder the queen, Daven's treachery, Tyrion's courage and the subsequent rewards and honor he received from Her Grace were one of the first matters to arise in the general conversation.

"I am _so_ glad he ended up the way he did," Arya said bluntly. "That scheming, evil, treacherous - "

But even though her words were clearly meant as a compliment to Tyrion, Sansa noticed the deep frown on her husband's face, and gave her sister a meaningful glance. "Has everything been well here lately?" she asked Gendry.

"No trouble whatsoever," replied her good-brother. "I think... I don't mean to boast, but I think all is going well now. The local lords will respect me yet."

"Don't be so humble," Arya smiled, "they respect you now. Sansa, you'll want to go up to your chambers and rest before supper, of course?"

"That would be most welcome," Tyrion replied instead. Indeed, despite his triumph he seemed weary, in mind more than in body.

"The gods seem to have some very particular design for me," he told Sansa once they were alone, "mine is the fate of repeated kinslaying. I killed my father, now I killed my half-brother... it's a pity I was not the one to dispose of Cersei," he added with a crooked smile. Despite his light tone, it was obvious he was tormented by what he was forced to do.

"He would have killed you if he'd had the chance," Sansa said quietly. "You know it. Then or later, he intended to get rid of you. He was..."

"Insane, you mean to say?" Tyrion interjected bitterly. "I hardly think so. He was a Lannister through and through. Ambitious, unprincipled, proud in the extreme... and yes, perhaps with a shade of the slightly unhinged mind that was so evident in Cersei. I didn't mean to kill him, but... when he dared to speak of his designs on you so cynically, it seemed these hands somehow acted of their own accord," he spread his small, blunt-fingered palms and looked at them, as if unbelieving they were capable of such a deed.

"He didn't really want me," said Sansa, "it was, I think... it was only that I refused him."

"Partly," her husband shook his head, "but you should know, Sansa, that your innocence of heart and sweetness of spirit are an irresistible attraction to men like Littlefinger... and like my late and unlamented brother."

For a while, there was no talk; they only held hands in the semi-darkness, each one a reassuring presence to the other, but immersed in their own thoughts. "It is over," Sansa said finally, with a glow in her face. "We are going... going to Winterfell. I know it will not be our home forever," she added, "I realize we will have to go to Casterly Rock eventually. But not in a while... isn't that so?"

Tyrion nodded. "I want our daughter to be born there," she went on, "like little Eddard was."

"You can't know for sure it is a girl," her husband objected with a gentle half-smile.

"But I do," Sansa replied, quite convinced, "it is a girl, and we shall name her Joanna."

... in due time, a baby girl was born to Sansa. She had the auburn hair of her mother and the green eyes of the Lannisters, and her name was Joanna. Not long after, Arya brought forth her firstborn too, a daughter named Catelyn, and later a son, Robert. They and all the rest of the Stark children went on to live a long, happy and prosperous life - which was not at all devoid of adventures.

One day, Queen Daenerys heard of magic that could lift the curse of her barrenness, and sent once more for her trusted friend and advisor, Tyrion Lannister.

But that is a beginning of another story, which has no place here.

A/N: I would like to thank all my patient readers who have stuck with the story until the end, despite the long hiatus!


End file.
